


nighthawk

by postfixrevolution



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), no beta we die like Glenn, resolved emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: Felix isn't often aware of his own mortality. Neither is Sylvain.or: felix gets injured in battle. sylvain realizes a few things, like the extent of felix's importance in his life.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 229





	nighthawk

Felix wakes up all at once, which is never pleasant. 

His head spins from the suddenness with which he opens his eyes, swimming with swirls of candlelight and shadow against the high stone ceilings of the monastery infirmary. The first breath Felix takes is slow and aching, and there's no need to remember where he was struck because it aches when he breathes, the ghost of an axe cut deep against his shoulder. If he thinks back hard enough, he can remember the way it cut clean through his leather pauldron and split into his clavicle with an audible _crack_. It hurts his head _and_ his collarbone to think too hard on it.

A second after his vision settles, he hears shifting. Turning his head feels like an impossible task, so he stares up at the ceiling, watching the way his bedside candle flickers as his companion shuffles to life. For some reason, Felix can't bring himself to be surprised when he catches sight of burnished orange hair in the corner of his vision, glowing like it was made out of the same thing as the candlelight that bathes them. That was the last thing he remembers seeing, too. 

"Sylvain."

His voice is tarnished from disuse, scratching the sides of his throat on its way out. There's no real reason for him to speak when it's obvious that they're alone, but the word comes out despite that, like an unfinished thought to match the last flash of orange hair and wide, honey-hazel eyes against the battlefield. 

Sylvain sits up at his call, leaning into Felix's field of vision. It takes half of him out of the candlelight's reach, drenching him in cool shadows that blend backward into the rest of the unlit infirmary. The curtains have already been drawn in preparation for the morning, so not even moonlight has the chance to trickle curiously in.

Felix doesn't need the whole of their shared candle to see Sylvain's face. He looks at him with wide, glassy eyes, the closest to tears since— since a time Felix can't remember, not with his head still clouded by the stubborn haze of sleep. Maybe there's nothing to remember at all. It takes more out of him than he thought it could — trying to recall if he's ever seen Sylvain cry. With this way his head pounds, there's no guarantee he'll remember this time, either. Felix isn't sure if he _wants_ to memorize the heavy splash of shadows that frame Sylvain's haunted face.

" _Felix_." 

He's quiet, voice tinged with something caught between wonder and disbelief, whispered like anything louder than the drop of a pin could wake him from something that reads like a dream. Felix can't see much lower than Sylvain's shoulders from where he lies, but he can imagine the way his fists are curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, muscles pulled taut the same way his words are — just enough to tremble at the edges from the strain. 

Sylvain had been there, he realizes, when Felix had gone down on the field, and shame wells up immediately at the thought, bubbling low in his stomach. It's not often that Felix is forced to confront the extent of his humanity — heavy and swathed in bandages and enough salve for it to burn at the back of his nose every time he breathes in too deep — and it aches to be bound to an infirmary bed like this, the collateral damage of his own imperfections. Something tells him Sylvain won't hold the slight against him, but that doesn't make it any better. Judging by the way Sylvain looks at him, so pale and wide-eyed at the thought that he's _alive_ , Felix isn't sure Sylvain will ever _forget_ it either. Guilt bleeds into the churning shame; Felix thinks he might throw up and that the motion might finally kill him.

"You're alive," Sylvain breathes, and the way his voice cracks around it makes Felix ache all over again. The pain that blossoms in his chest with every breath pales in comparison to Sylvain — to the way he's known since childhood where to put his knives and how to twist them. In Felix, it's always been the same place: wedged between the stubborn bars of his ribs and straight into his heart, wielding his honesty like a dagger, held close and drawn only in desperation. 

"Yeah," Felix croaks, mostly because _'no shit'_ requires an extra syllable. It's hard not to feel alive when Felix is acutely aware of his own pain, sitting hard on his chest and refusing to let him move. 

It's been a while since he's ended up in the infirmary like this, and Felix can't say he misses it. The entire room smells too heavily of salve and sanitation, always kept in a state of almost untouched cleanliness. A heavy air sits in the room, like the stone and mortar know exactly how many lives it has seen come and go. Cutting clean through it, there's a dull throb in the back of Felix's skull, wedged painfully between the pillow and his head, but he can't bring his neck to shift in an attempt to abate it.

"You left my hair up."

Sylvain blinks at him, like it wasn't what he had expected him to say. Felix isn't sure what there is to expect, but looking at Sylvain now, features softened by shock and even more so by candlelight, he thinks he finally might. The question of why he remains crawls onto his tongue, stayed only by his restless wait for Sylvain's response. The base of his head still throbs dully, but he can't find the energy to lift his head and hands to fix it.

"Oh," he mutters eventually. "Oh, sorry. We were—" Sylvain grimaces, scooting forward again. He places a hesitant hand atop the bed, just heavy enough for Felix to hear it whisper across the linen sheets. "I think you can imagine that we were in a bit of a rush," he laughs ruefully. 

He can.

"It fucking hurts to lay on," Felix says instead.

That prompts a more urgent reaction, eyes widening as he lifts his hands, hovering awkwardly over Felix, just within his view. A retort clings to the edge of his tongue — an irritated reminder that he's not _fragile_ , that there's no reason to think that something so simple could cause him to break — but Sylvain looks directly at him, catches his gaze in the swirling honey-hazel of his own, and the words never make it out. 

Felix tries to imagine the situation in reverse: Sylvain bound to the infirmary bed and Felix seated in the chair next to him, silhouetted by heavy candlelight. For some reason, Felix thinks he'd be angry. The concern on Sylvain's face is the exact opposite.

Sylvain's hands settle, one digging into the plush of Felix's pillow and the other curling warm and tentative over the slope of his good shoulder. Felix tries not to sigh in relief as Sylvain sits him up, but the sound tumbles past his lips as he slumps forward, heavy and out of touch with his own body. 

"I got you," Sylvain murmurs, just soft enough that Felix wonders if it was meant for his ears at all. Maybe it's a self-reassurance, a reminder that Sylvain can still catch Felix when he falls, and the thought sits bitter in the back of his throat. Felix closes his eyes, settles like a stone into the steady cradle of Sylvain's hold. 

The hand at his shoulder drifts to splay wide against Felix's back, the placating press of a warm palm against the column of his spine, long fingers bridging the gap between his shoulder blades. Felix exhales slowly at the careful pressure, but he's too weary to do much besides let Sylvain prop him up into a better half-sitting position, trying not to idle on how easily Sylvain's hand spans the width of his back. His field of view shifts away from the cold infirmary ceilings, bringing the rest of the room into light. As expected, they're the only two occupants, and Felix studies Sylvain as he single‐handedly attempts to shuffle his pillows into something more comfortable to lean against. 

Sylvain is no longer wearing his armor, but his clothes are the same ones Felix always sees him wear beneath it, still smudged with smears of dirt and dried blood, so dark in hue against the candlelight that Felix can't begin to tell them apart. It couldn't have taken much time to find a new change of clothes after getting rid of his armor, but he's here and as mud-stained as Felix remembers leaving him instead, and Felix traces the constellations between the freckles and flecks of soot that cling to his cheek. 

Once Felix is settled, Sylvain reaches around his head to pull the hair tie free. The throbbing in his skull dulls down to a slow pulse where the hair had been pulled back, and Sylvain scoots closer, combing warm, calloused fingers through the tumbled fall of it. Felix can't help the soft sigh that puffs out of his nose at the gentle drag of nails against his scalp, eyes falling shut as he leans his head back into the steady trickle of careful fingers through his hair. 

Sleep starts to pull heavy at his mind when Sylvain's ministrations begin to slow, fingers slowing to rest at the back of Felix's neck, bleeding warmth into the cool skin there. Felix opens his eyes slowly, shooting Sylvain a curious look. Sylvain, for once, isn't looking at him. When Felix butts his head back against Sylvain's palm, he jolts, fingers curling against the nape of his neck. 

"Spit it out, Sylvain."

He feels those dull fingernails scrape against his skin. Sylvain sighs.

"I used to think you could never die," he says.

It's not an accusation, but defensiveness surges up in Felix's throat regardless, vitriol bubbling up hot onto his tongue. Sylvain must have sensed it, because he shifts his hand to the slope of Felix's cheekbone, tracing a wan line across it as he gathers loose hair to tuck away, like he can tuck back the rising fury in the back of Felix's throat, too. It abates, if only just a little. 

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he replies, voice low. 

Sylvain leans away, takes his time to respond. His gaze is unfocused, staring at something between the way candlelight bounces across his inky hair and somewhere far behind him, miles away from where they're sitting now. He doesn't have the keenest sense of direction, but Felix is sure Sylvain is staring out the monastery gates, along the dirt road they wore down to make it to the battlefield. Waiting for Sylvain to meet his gaze feels like waiting for a castle siege. Felix knows it's coming, but that still can't stop the aching anticipation that tightens in his chest as he waits to be torn asunder and burned alive from the inside out. 

"You're an amazing soldier, Felix." He speaks with an even voice and distant eyes. Felix can't tell where Sylvain's truth ends and where the lie begins. The prideful part of him snarls that there's no lie to it, but the voice that echoes _I used to think you could never die_ , mournful and unsure, begs otherwise. He waits for the _but_ , sharpening his teeth and tongue in preemptive retribution. 

When it doesn't come, he grows restless.

"But what, Sylvain?"

"That's it," he shrugs, disproportionately resigned. "You're the strongest swordsman in our army and there's barely anyone here you can't outmatch. That's why I thought you were infallible." 

"But you changed your mind," Felix says slowly. "Why?"

Hazel eyes snap suddenly back into place, landing squarely on Felix. He looks haunted. 

"Why do you _think?_ " he demands. Felix doesn't flinch — not at Sylvain, never at Sylvain — but something in him quivers at the wild look in his best friend's eyes. "Felix, look at yourself! Maybe you can't remember it, seeing as you lost so much blood, but I thought you were dead. I couldn't hear your breathing over the wind for the entire ride, rode back with a dead man in my arms. When Mercedes finally let me back into the infirmary, I couldn't tell if I was really hearing you breathe or if it was just more wind in my ears."

"I thought you couldn't die," Sylvain mutters, "until you _did_ — lying good as dead in my arms for the entire trip back to the monastery — so sorry if the change of heart feels abrupt. I didn't ask to have my mind changed about you, Felix. I could have believed in you forever."

Felix's stomach twists. For once, his guilt outweighs his anger. 

He tries to imagine it in reverse again: Sylvain felled in battle and Felix on that horse, drowned in the rush of wind in his ears and the drum of hooves against the earth — a poor replacement for the heartbeat that he can't feel beating out from the future corpse in his arms. It's amazing how quickly he can force himself to imagine a life without Sylvain. It makes him want to throw up, makes him hope his heart will come up with the bile in his stomach and finally send him off the same way.

This time, the look on Sylvain's face is his exact mirror. 

Felix swallows something bitter — his own words, maybe, coated in the instinctive urge to respond with vitriol before anything else. It takes time to find his response, digging for words that only barely link together at the ends, messy in their form as he tries to piecemeal together a response with only the half-remembered pieces of forgotten apologies. He clears his throat, wincing at the rasp of his voice. 

"You don't— You _shouldn't_ have thought that way to begin with. I'm not invincible, Sylvain. None of us are. We're not that much different, risking our lives every day for a war that will never make the time to mourn us." He glances up, swallows tightly around the urge to look away. "I've never been any less fallible than you, Sylvain. We never stopped being the same."

Sylvain grimaces. He's the first to look away.

"I'm not— I'm not you, Felix. Nothing is going to grind to a halt if _I_ —"

"If you _what?_ " he demands, fists curled and white-knuckled at his sides. It aches in his bones, in the ghost of the mottled fractures that line the length of his collarbone. "If _you_ were the one in this bed, the one _I_ would have dragged, dead in my arms, to the monastery? This isn't a competition. There's no glory to be won in death."

"I'm not _talking_ about the glory! Saints, Felix, not everything is about king and country. Not everything is about something bigger, or noble. I'm only talking about you," he says, voice dwindling down to nothing but the raspy smoke of a smothered flame. "If _you_ die, what reason will the world have to keep turning?"

"It doesn't need a reason, Sylvain."

"But what if _I_ do?"

Felix flinches — at Sylvain, at his best friend. Sylvain's words are that axe all over again, bearing down on his chest and threatening to shatter his collarbone where it strikes true; they're that dagger, held close and drawn only in desperation. Felix can't remember a time he's ever seen Sylvain look so _desperate_. 

"You _don't_ ," he garbles, feeling out of touch with his own words, his own tongue, cottony and unsure. "You don't need a reason," says Felix. And then he says it again, honestly: "I can't be that reason."

Sylvain looks at him. He knows that they're thinking of the same thing, can see it in the way those glassy hazel eyes search him — desperately — for a spark of realization. There isn't one, but only because there's nothing to realize. They've always been the same: Felix keeps their childhood promise just as close as Sylvain does and he doesn't forget.

"What other reason is there?"

"You'll find one."

"I already did." He reaches forward, hesitating only once before he rests his hand atop the back of Felix's, light enough to feel barely there. Felix knows, even with his current lack of strength, that it's light enough for Felix to shake him off. "Maybe that promise was my own self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe I can't stand the idea of living or dying without you."

Sylvain's gaze is steady as he speaks, and Felix tears his eyes away from the sheer gravity of it, finding newfound interest in the golden contrast of Sylvain's skin held against his instead. His hand is large enough to eclipse Felix's, but held tentatively enough that Felix can barely feel it. 

"I made the same promise," he mutters, tracing lines over the ridge of Sylvain's knuckles. "Maybe nothing will grind to a halt for you when you die, but I'm not the only one whose death will mean something for those it leaves behind." Before he can think twice, Felix turns his hand over, pressing it palm to palm against Sylvain's. His fingers slot perfectly into the gaps in between Sylvain's own, and it takes four rushing heartbeats before Sylvain relaxes into him. Felix can't help his quiet sigh of relief. 

"I'm not infallible," he says again, lifting his chin with as much resoluteness as he can muster. Felix has never claimed to be impenetrable, but Sylvain's eyes — catching on all the golden candlelight that the shadowed planes of his face can't hold — are the battering ram that rends the oaken doors to his heart straight off their hinges. "You're the one that brought me back when I was dying," Felix rasps. "I need you too, Sylvain."

Sylvain's breath sounds strangled as it tumbles past his throat and he ducks his head down so fast Felix is worried he passed out, hazel eyes lost behind the sweeping curtain of his hair. For a second, Felix is afraid he's crying, stomach twisting at the breathy huffs that Sylvain can't stop from falling past his lips and shaking shoulders; he wonders if this is the time he'll finally remember it: Sylvain close to tears, something he's still so certain he's never seen before. 

When Sylvain lifts his head, nothing can prepare Felix for how violently his teary smile clashes with his teary eyes, like two sights that were never made to be juxtaposed. He looks beautiful. Felix exhales a shaky breath, anchoring himself on how tightly Sylvain squeezes Felix's hand in his.

"I need you, too," Sylvain echoes, shaking but sure.

Felix watches a tear spill over the line of Sylvain's lashes, trailing candlelight-gold down the curl of his cheek, and he feels light enough to lift his arm, in touch with his body just enough to wipe it away.

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this bc i wanted felix to be bitchy about falling asleep on his ponytail? anyway, come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/panntherism)!


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